Beneath It All
by dancingonmytoes13
Summary: They all want me to be happy. To move on. But I can't - don't they see? I'm still in the past, in that day when it all changed. I'd give anything to be normal...but beneath it all, I'm lost, and I need someone to guide me back to reality.
1. Chapter 1

**Dear FanFiction readers,**

**Hello. Here is another idea. I don't know if it will happen or not. **

**I've been wanting to get into writing again, but after ShadowDiving, I've been having lots of problems finding a plotline that would be as interesting to create as my first story. **

**So, delays. Plus, my school year was just terrible.**

**However, I have left the realm of high school and I've embarked on a college journey. My time may be limited, but I know it cannot be so terrible (knock on wood). **

**Some of you may think this story is similar to ShadowDiving, but I'm hoping to stay away from powers and creepy science labs in this one and just focus on the characters and their personalities.**

**Without further delay, I present to you **_**Beneath It All.**_

**Disclaimer: JP owns all things Maximum Ride. Unfortunately. I do, however, own a nice bag of animal crackers, and they are delicious.**

* * *

_Fang's POV_

"Hey, Danny, can you go to the basement and grab me another can of French onions? I'm almost out, and I'm going to make green bean casserole tonight."

"Yes, Mom," I reply, abandoning the task of stirring biscuit batter. I set down the spoon in the bowl, quickly wipe my hands on my jeans, and head down the hall.

Opening the basement door at the end of the hall, I turn on the lights and head down the dark grey stairs, shutting the door behind me to keep the cool air contained. The temperature tangibly lowers ten degrees as I descend to the cement downstairs.

Once down the steps, I head toward the rear of the room, where my family keeps our spare, industrial-sized supplies that my mother buys with her Costco coupons. It's a chore to sift through all the various toilet paper rolls, giant bags of cereal, large jars of Nutella, and garbage-bag-sized sack of raisins, but eventually I locate the lonely container of French onions beneath some bottles of ketchup. Cradling the large, round jar under my left arm, I try to rearrange the assortment of Costco grabs before turning around.

As I rotate, my hip runs in a bag of cereal, causing it to fall a foot to the cement floor with a surprisingly loud _bang_.

Sigh. This is why I never will win "most coordinated gangly teenager in America."

I set down the French onions, reset the cereal bag, and once again grab the onions to head upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, I turn off the lights. I stand for a moment, feeling my senses elevate as my eyesight is compromised. I can hear my breathing, steady and even, and the sound of the heater running outside the basement door. The cement smells rather dry and musty. My calloused fingers twitch on the cool metal doorknob, itching to turn it and escape the dark room.

Just as I am about to comply with my fingers, I hear another crash.

I turn on the lights again and go down a few steps, examining the Costco mountain for fallen packages.

Curiously enough, nothing has fallen over. Hm.

Slightly wary, I climb up the steps and turn off the lights. Goosebumps linger on my arm, but for some reason I don't think it's from the cold.

I turn the doorknob, opening the door and welcoming the sudden light and warmth.

Once I've closed the door behind me, I feel a little better. Taking a deep breath to settle my slight paranoia, I stride towards the kitchen.

"Did someone order an industrial container of French onions….?"

I trail off.

My mom is staring down at me, eyes solemn, fingers shaking, from on top of the high cabinets.

With a rope around her neck, tethered to the ceiling.

"I'm so sorry, Danny," she cries, tears in her eyes, "I love you so much."

"MOM!" I scream, lunging towards her.

I drop the French onion can as she leaps off the cabinets.

The plastic _thunk_ of the onions hitting the floor cannot cover the sharp _crack_ that fills the air at the same time.

No.

No, no, _no_.

"_Mom_!" I scream hoarsely, my hands shaking, my mind spinning. "Mom, _no!_"

My mother's empty eyes stare back at me, water dripping from her cheeks as her last tears fall down.

I pull out my pocketknife and cut the rope around her neck off. My mom's body falls downward with no resistance, and I barely manage to catch her before her head hits the linoleum floor.

I sink to the floor, cradling my mom's still-warm body in my arm, shaking and silent. No tears run down my face, and all I can think is desperate thoughts of how she can't be dead.

Trembling hands place themselves on my mom's neck, trying to find a pulse. My hands.

There is no feeling under my fingers. No air being breathed, no blood being pumped.

My mom's head hangs at a strange angle, her neck snapped. Her eyes stare at nothing but seem to still stare at me, blame me, _haunt_ _me_.

"Mom…," I whisper, my emotions so elevated and pulsing that I can't actually feel anything but emptiness.

I shut my mom's eyes somberly, hating the feeling of the thin skin giving way under my cold fingers. Hating all of this.

I don't even have the energy to grab the phone and call 911 like I need to.

Instead, I sit there, Mom lying lifeless in my arms. I lean over, cradling her weighted head to my chest, and close my eyes, trying to remember to breathe.

The first tears roll down my face as I hear the front door open and my dad announce, "I'm home!"

* * *

_6 months later_

I don't know if I really exist anymore.

A thin, shaded seventeen-year-old stares back at me in the mirror. His short but shaggy dark brown hair is unkempt, and his dark brown eyes are empty and hollow of emotion. His jaw is sharp; his cheekbones cast shadows that make his face seem hollow. Dark circles pronounce themselves like battle scars, attesting to countless nights of staring at the ceiling because sleep evaded him. He appeared battle-worn and wiser than his age, with that silent torment that PTSD creates in war veterans. His clothes hang on his lanky but lithe form that is one part smooth muscle and one part bone.

That boy is who stared at me.

That boy is supposed to be me.

That boy cannot be me, but he is.

This is why I hate mirrors – they remind you just how much you've changed, how much your life has changed. They are constant reflections of how the past has shaped you and clung to you with its greedy claws.

The fluorescent light of my overhanging lamp pale my olive tone slightly, making me seem paler than I usually am. My mother's Greek heritage hangs in the tone that coats my body, a heritage I don't want to remember because it always brings back the wrong memories, the bad memories.

The _snap_ that filled the air.

I feel pressure behind my eyes, and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes to repress the emotion.

"_Stop it, Fang_," I scold myself internally. "_You can't let people know that you are too weak to move on in life."_

Sighing, I drop my hands and turn away from the mirror.

I pick up my black backpack off my empty bed. It is the only possession left here, and I sling it on my back with a heave.

Inside the bag are my few articles of clothing – some black T-shirts, a couple pairs of jeans, and a sweatshirt from my local high school, showing off the mascot – a hawk. Stuffed in the pockets of the bag is cash obtained from my summer job at a lawn company, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and my mother's old golden cross necklace.

I stared around the empty room, remembering when it was filled with music, posters, books, and relaxation.

Before that day.

Before I lost myself.

I can't draw up the memories well, and it frustrates me.

Angry, I march out of the room, hastily turn off the lights, and slam the door shut, closing off the room and the past.

Out in the yellow-walled living room, my aunt and uncle stand, holding hands and trying to look happy.

But I can see the worry in their eyes, the fear – of me.

My dad sits in the singular lounge chair in the room, staring at a TV that isn't on. His hair, once a lovely autumn brown, is grey. His face is heavy with stress, and wrinkles adorn his eyes, forehead, and mouth.

He can hear me, but he won't look at me. He hasn't acknowledged me fully since Mom died.

My father can't grasp the concept of Mom's death (neither can I, for the matter). But instead of withdrawing into himself like me, he's chosen to believe I don't exist. I don't know if he blames me for her death or if my appearance is too much of a reminder, but he hasn't talked to me beyond asking me to "pass the salt" at meals.

In front of him is an empty bowl, cereal crumbs lingering on the sides. My father and I haven't cooked or eaten in the kitchen for six months.

It's too much of a reminder.

So, we've made a small stack of snacks, cereals, dried fruit – anything you can eat out of a bowl or a can without cooking it. Sometimes we'll order in. Or rather, I will, since my dad could care less what I want to eat.

"Hey, Danny," my aunt says softly, shaking me out of my thoughts. "Are you ready to go?"

I look back at my father. He doesn't acknowledge my presence.

"Sure," I mutter, feeling annoyance.

He can't even look at me to say goodbye as he kicks me out of the house.

That's why I'm leaving, after all. I've got no future here – or so my father tells my aunt and uncle.

"Jim," my uncle, who is my dad's brother, speaks. "We're leaving now. With Danny."

"You and Paula have fun," he says, leaving me out as I expected him to.

My aunt is about to speak, but I push past her and barge through the front door, sending the memo that I just want to leave – and leave _now_.

My uncle, aunt and I clamber into the small silver Honda Accord. My few belongings, like my bedspread, lie in two boxes in the trunk.

Uncle Jim shuts the car down and fastens his seatbelt. As he sticks the keys in the ignition, he turns around to look at me. "Ya ready to leave, Danny?"

"Don't call me Danny," I say, looking out the window.

My uncle sighs and turns on the car.

My aunt asks the obvious question.

"What do you want to be called, then?"

I finger the jagged rock hanging around my neck, a gift from my mother back in fifth grade. It has small symbols of a different language inscribed on it, and my mother told me it was supposed to symbolize bravery and courage.

I feel neither anymore.

I think of all the names I could have, and I wander into some ridiculous ideas. Glancing at my uncle and aunt out of the corner of my eye, I ponder how crazy a name I can spit out to them.

"Fang," I answer seriously, chuckling on the inside, and I figure that the name will be rejected like a lactose intolerant person rejects milk.

There is only silence for a moment, but then Uncle Jim replies, "Okay. Fang it is."

I'm slightly startled, but I don't let on to my true emotions. Instead, I focus on keeping my face blank as I stare out the window.

Uncle Jim hits the gas, and the car moves forward. The landscape slips away as the distant gains between my house and me.

The sky surrounding us is grey. I can't help but wonder if my life will remain this shade of grey. Leaving the house won't solve any of my problems. Therapy hasn't done squat. I refuse to take anti-depressant drugs – I don't want to lose this emotion, this regret and lament.

It's all I have left of her.

I'm a lost boy. People don't want to deal with lost boys; people _can't_ deal with lost boys.

You know why?

Because the only way to not be lost is for us to find our own way back to ourselves.

The problem is, I don't know where the old me is.

So, this new high school, this new town, this new home, this new family – it means nothing. The chance for new friends – it means nothing. A fresh start means nothing.

Because I'm still in that kitchen, seeing my mother fall, hearing her bones separate, watching the last tears leave her eyes.

_Saying "I love you so much.'_

And nothing can ever erase that.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to "Freshman" by Jay Brannan. **

**This is really somber. I apologize for my mind, but this is necessary for the story.**

**If you think I should continue this, tell me. And I may not end up doing it, because sometimes I just can't think of how to finish/continue a story. But I don't know; I'll read what you guys think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, not much to say here. Chapter 2!**

**Disclaimer: I own nada in correspondence to Maximum Ride. All rights belong to James Patterson.**

* * *

_Fang's POV_

We pull up to the small, suburban home 30 minutes later.

Staring out of the silver Accord, I view the white siding, the tall windows curtained with floral fabrics, the red wooden front door, the small flower garden along the concrete porch, and the faded grey wicker porch swing, creaking lazily in the light, summer breeze.

My new house. Yay.

It takes a grand total of five minutes to unload my stuff from the car.

It would have only taken four if Uncle Jim hadn't had trouble fishing out his keys from his jeans pocket.

Inside, there is a small living room with grey carpet and burgundy walls. A black leather wrap-around sofa fills the space, and across from it on the wall is a semi-large television. A coffee table with hand-knit coasters sits in the middle of the room.

Beyond this area there are two main sections: a white, semi-updated kitchen to the left and a hallway to the right, lined with wedding pictures of my aunt and uncle and a few family photos of my dad, mother, and I.

My aunt and uncle have no children. I have no cousins or anything – I'm an only child quite literally.

Down the hallway is a singular bathroom and two bedrooms – a master that belongs to my aunt and uncle, and a guest room.

My new room.

Got a bathroom to myself, too. That's nice, I guess.

We plop my bedspread, box of knickknacks, and backpack on the empty white mattress of my new room. The walls are light beige, and the carpet is thick and white.

The room is so freaking bright, and it's almost painful to view.

There is a small wooden dresser in the corner, and a closet door next to it that reveals itself to be a minute walk-in (not that I need it, anyway).

A mirror hangs above the dresser.

"Get rid of the mirror," I say almost harshly, wincing at the thought of seeing what I've become on a regular basis. "Please."

Aunt Paula stares at me for a moment, trying to figure out what is bothering me or the reason behind my action.

I gaze back stoically.

Eventually, she sighs, goes to the mirror, and removes it off the wall hooks. Without a word, she carries it out the door and into her bedroom.

Uncle Jim coughs, rocking on his heels. The silence is thick and awkward.

"Um," he starts, clearing his throat once more. "If you want, we can paint the walls a different color. I noticed you seem to like darker colors…"

He trails off, eyeing my black Hanes T-shirt, dark jeans, and worn black and silver Nikes.

Great – not only am I an emotional, teenage nightmare he has to house, but he thinks I'm a goth boy who loves black.

'S'fine," I mutter, feeling badly for them having to piggy-back me for the remainder of my teenage career because of a resentful dad and a dead mother –

The pain hits me again, stabbing like a lot of needles in my chest, but I try to act as if I'm not feeling anything at all.

The silence persists, and neither of us will break it.

My uncle doesn't know what to say.

I just don't want to say anything.

My aunt returns to the room, walking past us to where my backpack is. She starts to unpack my clothes and fold them, placing them in the dresser drawers.

They barely occupy half of one drawer.

"We'll have to buy you some more clothes, Fang – some brighter colors, too," Aunt Paula comments absentmindedly. "Wearing all this black isn't going to help – it's like living in a funeral."

Why, hello, anger. You and lament seem to be such close buddies.

My nostrils flare slightly in annoyance. "I don't wear black so I can bathe in self-pity," I say darkly, welcoming the fury as it replaces the bad memories.

My aunt's face falls, and my uncle speaks quickly in an attempt to remedy the situation. "Now, Fang, your aunt didn't mean it like that."

My aunt speaks up, now. "It's just hard to see you suffering and beating yourself up so much. We want to help, if you'll talk to us."

"My father already tried that, remember?" I retort, barely manipulating my voice into a somewhat-scary but even tone. "The therapist spent two sessions with me and then didn't bother making more appointments. I'd never heard such a creative combination of swears and the word 'burrito'."

"It's harder to talk to strangers than family," my uncle comments with a concerned face.

"I disagree," I reply. "If it was easy to talk to family, then why do so many kids hide the fact that they do drugs or have boyfriends or are struggling in life?"

"It's because they are ashamed of themselves and don't want to face it by admitting it," Aunt Paula states.

"It's because they know the judgment they'll receive!" I exclaim. "Love is the strongest and harshest criticism to face."

"We aren't going to judge you, Da..Fang," Aunt Paula says softly, her eyes soft and worried.

I look away, too emotionally caught up to say anything clearly and without revealing my inner weakness.

The wall melts with the figurative heat of my glare.

"You can't blame yourself for what happened, Fang," Uncle Jim finally utters.

"Shut up!" I explode, slamming my hand against the wall roughly.

Silence.

"Just please _stop,_" I say softly, closing my eyes.

I hear footsteps, and then my aunt has her hand on my shoulder. "Fang –"

I hastily remove myself from her grip and sprint out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door, not even bothering to close it behind me.

I run down the suburban sidewalk, trying to focus on the movement and slow burn in my leg muscles as I push forward. I listen to the steady inhalation and exhalation of air through my lungs. Look-alike houses fly past me as I sprint full-blast, letting my thundering footsteps drown out all the doubts and regrets that jab at my mind, begging for attention.

"_Leave me alone!"_ I scream mentally, trying to shove all the endless _why_'s out of my head.

Needless to say, my mind just cannot cooperate.

I fly on adrenaline for I don't know how long, but eventually, my body needs more oxygen than I am giving it, and I have to stop and pant desperately.

Hands on my knees, hair damp on my forehead, and body slightly bent over, I examine my surroundings.

I'm on the edge of suburbia, around a slightly wooded area. The trees are tall with broad green leaves and worn brown trunks. I'm probably three miles away from where I started – my aunt and uncle's house is on the entrance to the suburb.

No one is around.

After a minute of catching my breath, I approach the nearest tree and start to climb.

I try not to think how it was my mom who taught me this skill.

After getting a few branches higher than is at all safe, I sit on a limb and rest my head against the trunk, letting my gaze reside on the overhanging canopy of leaves.

I close my eyes and finally let myself go.

The pain flashes back instantly, but it's a bit nullified now. It stings all over this time, like a mild headache and cramped muscles and an exhausted diaphragm, but I let it flow. I'm caught in the limbo between wanting to cry and being afraid that if I start…I'll never stop.

A warm breeze hits my face, rustling through the leaves. I can almost smell the cinnamon that was always in her fingers from cooking, the hint of lemon from the soap she had all over the house…

"Are you okay, mister?"

"Wah!" I exclaim, gripping onto the branch for dear life as I almost catapult off it in fright. "Who's there?"

There is a rustle of leaves above me, and then a curly, small blonde head emerges, looking down at me from the branch above.

"I'm Angel," the little girl says, and I can't help but wonder how this little kid managed to get all the way up here alone. "I don't know you."

"…Fang," I say slowly, eyeing her steadily.

"That's a weird name. Do you bite people?" Angel asks, tilting her head to the side and sending her curls bouncing.

I end up rolling my eyes in slight annoyance. "No, and I don't like vampires, either."

"Neither do I. They're scary," she says in all seriousness.

I look at Angel straight in the eyes, and I can't help the cold numbness that overtakes me as I see her ocean-blue eyes looking back at me.

The same exact shade of blue my mom's eyes were.

However, these eyes aren't the sad, fearful eyes that haunt my memories and dreams. They are alight with curiosity, kindness, and youth, and they sparkle in the mid-morning sun.

I think of my mom baking muffins on Sunday mornings, laughing as she sings along with her 90's revamp on the radio program and dusts the warm crusts with cinnamon sugar, her eyes bright and alive.

I feel a bit warmer. I cling to the feeling like a life preserver, desperately wanting to hold onto the memory and the love it brings with it.

"Do you live here?" she asks, after I fail to restart the conversation.

"Sorta. Just moved here," I reply.

"Are you in high school?" she interrogates.

"Yep."

"So is my sister. But she doesn't really like it."

I snort. "Hardly anyone does."

"Oh," she says, wide-eyed.

It's silent for a moment. Then, a female voice screams, "_Angel!_ Where _are you!_?_!_"

"That's my sister," Angel answers. "I have to go eat lunch. Nice to meet you, Fang!"

She clambers down the tree trunk with extraordinary skill, leaping to the bottom of the tree in record time.

"Bye," I say softly, looking at her retreating figure.

I see an older, sorta-blonde brunette girl approach Angel, though I can't see much clearly from up here. She takes Angel's hand and starts to walk away.

"I met a guy in the trees," I hear Angel say. "His name is Fang!"

The girl glances into the trees, but can't see my figure due to the leaves concealing me.

"Is he your new imaginary friend?" she asks politely, on the verge of laughter.

"No, he's real!" Angel exclaims adamantly, "and you should be his friend, too."

"Okay, Ange," I faintly hear, and then they disappear into a house.

I sit in the tree a bit longer, relishing in the leftover warmth from my encounter with Angel until it disappears. Sighing, I clamber down – less gracefully than Angel, unfortunately – and walk back up the long road to my aunt and uncle's house, readying my apology for being rude and rash and whatever else.

Today was the first day I was able to remember my mom outside of that final day.

Unfortunately, as I walk back to my new home, I feel the familiar questions and sorrows settle back into my body, casting their anchor in the seas of my mind and heart. Frustration fills me as I realize my earlier memory is suddenly unreachable, and all I'm left with is the frightened glance and the tethered rope again.

It's like finding a trace of a breadcrumb trail…and then eating it, removing all hopes of going home.

Still….it was nice, while it lasted.

Even if it was only for a moment.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to "I Know Who I Am" by Jeremy Camp.**

**A short segment. The chapters are kinda going to be small and involving small events…at least, until I get a sure idea of where I want to go with this story for sure. Remember, this won't really be an action fic.**

**R&R, if you would like!**


	3. Chapter 3

**So, I'm so sorry that I haven't been responding to the reviews like I normally do. You are all so supportive and great. Thank you for giving me feedback and encouragement; it really does wonders for a writer.**

**THIS IS MY COLLECTIVE THANK YOU, TO ALL YOU REVIEWERS, FAVORITERS, AND FOLLOWERS. I LOVE YOU LIKE I LOVE NUTELLA, WHICH IS A LOT.**

**There. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights belong to an older man named James Patterson.**

* * *

School is an odd institution to describe. One fluctuates between calling it a "death trap prison required in today's society for no reason other than a law, a fine, and an expectation of your peers," "a set of mundane classes where you are expected to expand your intellect, your social skills, and your tolerance to quasi-edible food," and "boring."

However, I think we can all admit that we miss it about half-way to three-fourths of the way through summer. We miss having a standardized schedule; we miss seeing our friends daily and complaining about our trivial woes, whether a monumental homework assignment or a terrible teacher. We miss using our brains and feeling that occasional pride when we accomplished a task previously impossible.

Plus, there is only so much TV a person can watch before he or she gets bored to tears.

Considering I am only seventeen, I am still required to attend high school if my elders wish me to.

So, yeah – this is my first day back at school.

Recalling back six months, I am not sure how I managed to keep going in school. My best guess is that I mindlessly processed information and just copied it onto paper. It was all that was necessary to do well – no emotion required. Actually, I think I enjoyed school – the work, the teachers droning on and on about their subjects, and the empty gossip were all fantastic distractions.

Home always greeted me with reminders – the darkened, unused kitchen, and the silence that came from a distant father and an emotionally-lost teenage son.

But, as the phrase so expertly states, _life goes on_.

So here I am, walking to school.

A new school. A new set of people. A new set of teachers.

_A new life_. _Maybe_.

It is a twenty minute walk to school from my aunt and uncle's house. It leads in a straight path from point A to point B. It's a bit longer than many are willing to tread, but I don't mind. Walking is its own distraction; the work of muscles and the thud of footsteps act as a sort of empty music, an odd metronome that keeps my mind pulsing in time, letting me become lost in the rhythm instead of thinking.

Thinking always ends up badly.

Fifteen minutes later, I end up passing Angel's house. As I stride past, I glance at the red door, the white paint, and the black roof. The house is picturesque in all dimensions – almost as if it popped out of a storybook.

"_Angel and her family must love coming home_,_"_ I think to myself. "_Coming home to a place where evil cannot be imagined – only fairy tales and happy endings."_

I turn my gaze as I pass and spot the tree I was in only days ago. The tall oak towers into the sky, its branches twisting and bending in a complex web. Leaves filter the early morning light, and they leave lattice patterns of shade on the sidewalk below.

I mentally catalog the tree as a refuge.

I am two houses further south when I hear a door creak open behind me. Reflexively, I look to see what it is.

Voices emanate from the open doorway, sounding like an exchange of "bye's." A girl with brown-blonde hair pulled into a messy braid exits out of the house, a red backpack slung across her right shoulder. She pivots on a sneaker-clad heel, shuts the door, and darts down her porch stairs before falling into stride on the sidewalk.

Before she can raise her head, I hastily look forward again.

I don't want to be perceived as a creeper.

Her footsteps echo on the sidewalk, sounding at a faster tempo than my own. Within a minute, she is almost directly beside me, and I spot her familiar form out of the corner of my eye.

Red T-shirt with some sort of angry beaver on it – oh, it says _Battle Badgers_ on it. What the hell is a _battle badger?_ – and simple, loose blue jeans. Nothing too fancy; nothing too feminine.

I mentally assess my own outfit – dark blue jeans, a plane black Hanes T-shirt, and my ratty grey tennis shoes. Nothing special here, either.

I'm momentarily puzzled at myself for being self-conscious of my clothes. Usually, I don't give a rat's ass about what others think of me.

"_Maybe it's because she's new, like everyone else here. You don't know what to expect anymore. You don't know if the judgments will affect you here."_

My mental philosopher is always here to clarify the unknown.

It's not always the most welcome of insight, though.

I remember having my first girlfriend back in freshman year. I remember walking around in a goofy giddiness, feeling like I was on clouds twenty-four seven. I remember questioning my nerves around her – why did I always want to be around her? Why did physical contact feel like sparks?

My inner Freud:

_It's just hormones and your libido. Get over it._

It sure knew how to kill the mood.

Back to Angel's sister. Because that's who this girl is.

I recognize her from a few days, even though all I saw was her hair and general body shape. She still hasn't said anything, though her eyes keep quickly darting to me, analyzing me with rapid glances.

We walk side by side for a bit. I unconsciously speed up to match her pace.

Finally, she sighs and looks my way. I slowly turn my head to meet her brown eyes.

"I don't know you," she says in an empty tone. No curiosity, no guilt – just stating a fact.

"I don't know _you_," I reply in a similar monotone. Carefully constructed.

"That's not unusual," she says, sort of laughing to herself – an inside joke. "Most people don't know me, even though they see me every day."

"By choice?" I ask, intrigued by her isolation but unwilling to admit that in any outward way. Was she a freak? Did she just not like people? Was she just invisible?

Or did something happen to her, too, that closed her off from all her old friends?

The girl from the storybook house…what exiled her from a fairy tale?

"Kinda," she muttered, looking ahead now instead of me, her eyes distant.

Step, step, step.

"Did you just move here?" Max questions.

"…Sorta," I hedge reluctantly.

Step, step, step, step.

"So what's your name?" she asks, re-initiating the conversation.

"What's yours?" I retaliate.

"I asked first," she stated, looking annoyed.

"You talked first," I reply evenly.

She rolls her eyes, and a small smile graces her lips. "Whatever. I'm Max. Max Martinez."

_Max_.

Step, step, step.

"You don't really look like a Max," I say, purposely trying to irritate her. Rule of anti-socialism: use sarcasm and annoyance to shield my screwed-up, introverted personality. "More of an Emily or Ann."

I'm hoping to get a laugh.

"Well, I'm Max, so suck it up," she snaps quietly.

That strategy is not going to work for her.

Step, step, step.

"Are you going to –"

"Fang."

"What?"

"Fang. My name is Fang."

I see her scrutinizing me, and I mentally shrink away, as if she can see just how messed up I am.

"You're the tree person. The one Angel talked about."

"Yep."

Step, step, step, step.

"You made quite the impression."

"What?" I ask, bewildered.

"Angel keeps going on about how great you are, about how cute you are, and how I should be your friend," Max lists off on her fingers. "Frankly, I don't see where she got that idea. You're really awkward. And sorta rude."

I clench my jaw and stare straight ahead.

This conversation is going fantastically.

Step, step, step.

"I can't believe you just took that without a fight," Max says.

"Well, I'll gladly punch you, if that helps."

Max laughs; I note absently that it is a nice laugh.

"I'm sorry," Max admits, seeming almost embarrassed. "I'm socially-retarded. I am really bad at stuff like this."

"Like what?"

"Talking."

I give out a small bark of laughter, allowing a small smile to show on my lips.

"In case you haven't noticed, neither am I," I state.

Max gives a larger grin. "Maybe we can be anti-social together."

I stare straight into her eyes and say with more seriousness than I intended, "I'd like that."

Max looks are me for a bit longer before resuming her forward stare.

And then we are at the school, climbing the steps to the front door, and entering the educational institution.

Max whips out her schedule from her backpack, stopping next to locker 344. "What's your schedule look like?" she asks, presenting her hand so she could compare hers and mine.

I shrug my backpack off my shoulder and into my arms, opening the main compartment and pulling out the single piece of printed paper.

"Here you go, your highness," I say teasingly, mock bowing as I put the paper in her hand.

She takes the hand with her schedule in it and punches me in the arm. It hurts more than I expected, but I don't show it.

She's strong.

"Shut up," she says, but I can hear the amusement under it. I watch her study the two papers, analyzing the contents and studying for similarities.

"Well, we have a lot of the same classes, but in different hours," she says, her eyebrows scrunching together. "The only two periods we have together is first hour Calculus 2 and a similar lunch hour. Not to mention your locker is on the other side of the school."

"Nice to know," I mutter, going around to stand beside Max and look at the schedules over her shoulder.

I see her shoulders visibly tense at my close proximity. I silently move a little farther back by pretending to shift my weight, as to not convey that I saw her uncomfortableness.

…yeah, that's now a word.

What she says is true; beyond Calculus 2 with Mr. Donald, and a similar lunch, our hours are all over the place.

Locker number: 920.

I see her unconsciously relax as I walk back to my previous position.

I take back my schedule and shove it in my backpack.

"Okay," Max starts, folding her schedule and placing it in her jeans pocket, "Let me get my books from my locker, then we'll head over to yours. It's closer to Donald's room."

"K," I reply quietly.

We don't talk after that, neither while she gets her books nor when we visit my locker. I just throw my backpack in there, taking out the schedule, my singular notebook, and a pencil.

I have no books, yet.

Shutting my locker door, I follow Max like a duckling to Mr. Donald's room.

The walls are off-white, and the floor is industrial carpet. The desks are arranged systematically in rows and columns, all facing a large whiteboard and a teacher's desk. An older man sits behind the desk, his balding head shining in the fluorescent overhead lights.

Max guides me to desks in the back center of the room. She plops her books down and motions me to sit to her left. I follow her instructions implicitly.

Max gestures to the man up front.

"That's Mr. Donald," she says softly. "He's hard to get used to, because he teaches in an older style, but he's actually nice."

I notice her looking at Mr. Donald in a form of mild pity.

"I'm guessing most people hate him," I deduce, studying Max's face for more clues.

She looks back at me. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

I'd rather not describe how I was stalking her face.

"Just a hunch. 'Hard to get used to' usually translates to 'difficult.' Difficulty usually leads to hatred and frustration."

Max stares at me, studying my face. I close myself off.

"You are really observant," she notes quietly.

I don't reply. I just look at the board.

"Why'd you more here?" Max asks, curiosity burning through her disinterested façade.

My mind flashes to that damn rope again. _The yellow walls._

"People move, sometimes."

"That's rather vague," Max says in annoyance. "Can't you tell me anything?"

_Blue eyes, filled with tears._

"I think it's time for some anti-socialness."

Max's glare is cold, but she eventually turns away from me and thrusts open her notebook, doodling in a rather angry fashion.

As soon as her gaze is gone, so is my tie to the present. My mind swims in the memory, seeing Mom leap down over and over and _over –_

And I see myself barely missing her over and over again.

When Mr. Donald starts teaching the class, my mind blankly focuses on reality again, absorbing silently how to derivate with the chain rule and reviewing the power rule.

I'm sure by lunch I'll be better. I'll have to apologize to Max.

Maybe she'll forgive my iciness in exchange for a cookie.

I mentally scoff at the image of Max selling her soul for a chocolate chip cookie.

Unfortunately, this reservation is not a one-time thing. The memory sits in the back of my mind like a pool. If someone so much as mentions something related to the incident, it's like dipping my toe in the water and having a piranha latch onto it rather viciously.

Mentally sighing, I think about how I want to feel better.

I want to be happy. I want to forget.

"_No, you don't," _philosopher Fang advises. "_You secretly want to remember so you always have her."_

See? This is what I was talking about; such terrible timing.

I want to forget…but I don't want to lose her, too.

I think back to my encounter with Angel, about seeing those blue eyes and thinking of my mom and her baking cinnamon muffins.

How _warm_ that felt.

"_You've got one good memory, at least,"_ inner me lectures. "_So forget _that_ one already."_

Easier said than done.

I feel guilty now that I've introduced Max into this mess that I call me. I contemplate just skipping out on lunch and forcing Max out of my life, just to make hers easier.

Somehow, I don't think it'd work.

And somehow, I don't think I want to shove her out.

She's a distraction. An intriguing one.

And I need all the distractions I can to pretend I'm normal.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to "Sound of Silence"****by Passenger (it's a cover, and a good one at that).**

**R&R, if you please.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. Yeah.**

* * *

Fridays.

They are the "hallelujah" days of the week, when everything relaxes and sleep can finally be recaptured.

Most people party, hang out with friends, go out to eat, attend a concert, walk through a park, shop at Wal-Mart, play with bubble wrap in a small, dark room…_something_.

But then again, I'm not most people.

So what was I doing on Friday night?

Sitting on the couch, alone, staring up at the ceiling in complete silence.

I am super awesome, I know.

My aunt and uncle have gone out to dinner. They offered me an invitation, but I didn't really want to come, and I could tell this was going to be a date of sorts that I would just be third-wheeling.

This leads to me, lounging on a couch, staring at a ceiling. On Friday night.

_Why not get on the Internet, Fang? Why not watch TV, listen to music, play video games, eat food?_

Because Fang just likes being an introverted freak who spends his Fridays contemplating his current level of depression and the likeliness that it will end in the next week. Or month. Or year.

Ya know…the usual.

The only really unique (and by unique, I mean utterly horrible) experience I had these past few days was therapy.

Yep. My aunt and uncle foolishly decided I should go back into therapy.

Let me quickly recap the session:

I came in.

He (the therapist) politely asked some questions.

I (not so politely) refused to answer them and remained silent and stony faced.

He wrote down random notes on my lack of cooperation.

I started asking him questions.

Things started going badly.

I ended up running from the office, a shoe flying through the air behind me; the therapist was curled up in a corner of his office, rocking back and forth in tears while shouting, "_BANI-SHED! I SAID YOU ARE BANI-SHED!_"

I'm not good with people asking about my inner thoughts and reflections. Or people, in general.

Max and I have talked a few times throughout the week. We have a routine. I walk to her house. She joins me and we finish the trek to school. We walk back from school. She goes in her house. I continue on to mine.

We stay mostly silent, but it's not awkward. At least, to me it isn't. Max doesn't let on if it bothers her.

I learned that Max runs cross-country, but not track. She started karate recently, which she says is so she can protect herself in college.

I don't know why, but for some reason I think she'd be able to hold her own in a fight – karate or not. She's very level-headed, and she doesn't take shit.

Don't get me wrong – she doesn't just go around punching everyone's lights out at school. In fact, she's actually kind of reserved and quiet. Like me.

Max is pretty cool…except when she tries to probe answers out of me.

Then she's just frustrating.

The only nice thing is that she accepts when I don't want to talk, even if it is reluctantly.

I turn over on my side, staring at the blank television screen now instead of the ceiling, and I sigh slightly.

I can visualize the House or Castle episodes that my mother always watched – they were her favorite shows. She'd stop whatever she was doing when the clock changed to nine o'clock and dash to the couch, eagerly flipping the channel.

You didn't try to change the channel when it was Mom TV Time, as we called it.

She'd have a bowl of granola and skim milk, and she'd munch as she watched the newest episode in rapt attention. Sometimes, she'd laugh, and granola and milk would fly everywhere from her mouth.

It sounds gross, but it was funny. It was just who she was.

God, I miss her.

Suddenly, the silence of the house is suffocating more than comforting. I sit up, then clamber to my feet.

I'm in the closest thing to pajamas that I could wear: a frayed, loose, navy blue T-shirt and some black Hanes sweatpants from Wal-Mart that fell overly long around my bare feet. My hair is completely disheveled from lying around in a daze, but I find I don't care.

I have to get out of here. _Now_.

I barely register grabbing my keys, turning off the lights, and locking the door behind me. Without any shoes on, I take off sprinting into the night, my phone left uselessly on the kitchen table that is becoming steadily farther away. I'm running faster than I ever have, and my feet hit the cold cement with hard, rapid _thumps._

It is eight o'clock at night, but the sun has long been down. The streets are dark, and I fall into the shadows, streaking down the sidewalk in the equivalent of blind panic. Only the occasional streetlamp illuminates my sprinting figure.

I pass no one as I run haphazardly away from my neighborhood, in the opposite direction of Max's house and the school and the oak tree. I run away from my silent, empty, temporary house. I run away from the television that reminded me how happy Mom used to be.

I try to run away from the memories of Mom killing herself, but they cling to me like parasites.

The cement is rough under my bare feet, scraping the tough skin on my soles and bruising the bone of my heel. It physically hurts, running like this, but it doesn't distract me.

This is worse than usual.

I can almost feel the seams of my woven emotional barrier falling apart. I notice with horror that I am about to have what some people call "an emotional break-down".

Desperately, trying to delay what was bound to happen eventually, I run faster.

Sweat is on my face, but the night air still leaves goose bumps on my skin.

The darkness is swallowing me up; I can't see well. My vision is getting blurry.

Wait, what?

Crap, no. I'm not going to cry. Not now. Not here. Not in the open.

My body doesn't even know how to deal with this situation. I usually never feel this low. I usually never feel so emotional.

I don't know what the fuck to _do_.

In a fleeting thought, I stop outside a dark building. Further ahead, lit by a few solar lights, is a sign that reads, "Follet's Gymnasium".

Without thinking of alarms or trespassing laws, I twist the backdoor handle.

Surprisingly, it opens.

I lunge through the door, shutting it behind me.

In front of me is a large wrestling mat. Boxing bags hang from chains on the ceiling like bats in the dark room. The only light shining through is the bleak moonlight, partially obscured by clouds.

I silently walk over to a bag, still not thinking of how I could go to jail if I get caught trespassing. How I don't even have a membership here. How I'm being really stupid right now.

I stare at the dark brownish bag, my hands unconsciously balled into tight fists. My fingernails dig into the palm of my skin from the tension of my grip. My arms slightly shake, though I'm not sure if it's from the cold or something else entirely.

Suddenly there's a wetness on my right cheek.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Gritting my teeth, I pull back my right arm and swing it as hard as I can into the bag.

_Wham!_

The bag flies backwards in a small arc, returning back to me.

_Wham, wham, wham!_

I alternate arms, feeling my unwrapped hands throb upon contact, but also feeling grim satisfaction in venting this frustration and _emotion_ into something that wasn't my subconscious.

I swing wildly, without technique, without purpose, punching to rid of these demons in my mind

"_Why did you have to die, Mom?" _I think desperately with a punch. "_Why couldn't you live anymore? Why couldn't you stay? Why'd you leave me behind to deal with this alone?"_

The bag swings rapidly from the adrenaline-filled strength of my punches.

The mirrors lining the opposite wall portray a fierce, almost animalistic fury on a boy's face. The mirrors show this scruffy, angry kid in hobo clothes, beating the living shit out of an inanimate object. He looks like an emotional wreck. He looks psychotic.

He looks like me.

"Arg!" I scream hoarsely, and I swing a right hook that sends the bag flying backwards and right off its hook. It hits the floor with a heavy _boom_.

Shit. _Shit_.

Suddenly, all my strength is gone. I sink to the ground, an empty sac of skin and bone and old emotion.

I feel silent tears on my cheeks still. I close my eyes in pain.

I haven't cried since I held my dead mom in my arms for the last time.

I throw one last heavy, bruised fist onto the bag at my feet, and then I set my face into my head and let the silent pain overwhelm me.

"It's better to let it out, or else it just festers like a mindfuck."

I stop breathing.

Shit – what is _she_ doing here?

Max walks forward in the darkness until she is a few feet away.

I don't raise my head to meet her analyzing gaze.

"You went sprinting like you'd grown wings past my car as I was driving back from Target. You looked like you'd seen a ghost," Max says softly, "so I turned around and followed you here."

"That's nice," I whisper hoarsely, still not looking up. "Now go away."

Max moves until she is right next to me, and then she sits down.

"I lost my dad when I was eight," she says. "I was old enough to know death was permanent, but not enough to really understand that he wasn't going to be around anymore. When I got older, it hurt more – I'd realize I didn't have fatherly advice, no _daddy's little girl_ relationship that so many other girls did. I couldn't ask him for help on schoolwork, couldn't talk about the small secrets you can't tell your mom. It still stings."

I lower my hands from my face, but still don't look up.

"I can still remember him fondly, though. How he'd always make pancakes on Saturday morning; even though they weren't as good as Mom's, I still thought they were my favorite because he made them just for me," Max says.

I slightly look up under my bangs, and I see Max staring off above my head, a smile on her face that isn't sad.

Max closes her eyes. "It never goes away – that feeling of abandonment. That lost love. But it heals, and reshapes, and becomes fondness. It helps to talk about it….to remember."

She looks at my shaded face. "Don't try to hold all your feeling back. I wish I'd know that when I was younger…then maybe I wouldn't be so closed off, afraid to lose any new relationships."

Silence flows after her words ended, filling the air like cotton. But it isn't suffocating; it is soft, comforting.

I take a deep breath in, and exhale slowly.

"Six months ago," I begin, embarrassingly hoarse. This situation should really be reversed, in a normal world. "That's when she…she…"

Max takes my hand silently, her fingers long but strong.

"…That's when my mom jumped off our kitchen cabinets with a rope around her neck and died," I spit out, my voice cracking at the end. "Right in front of me."

Max is extremely silent, her face drawn in concern but not sympathy.

Which felt so much better than any, "I'm sorry."

"That's why I'm here," I continue roughly, "because my dad couldn't stand how similar I looked, couldn't bear to deal with a constant reminder of his dead wife. I can't look at myself in the mirror without wincing most times. No one knows why my mom chose to die. She never let on that she was depressed or anything…"

I trail off, feeling one last, traitor tear slip down my face. I can feel that it is the end of this tear-fest, but I still feel a little empty.

Max looks into my eyes, and I feel a little warmer.

"God, that's screwed up," Max says.

I snort half-heartedly. "Yeah, I know."

Suddenly, Max's hand in under my jaw, lifting my chin to meet her gaze. She doesn't move her hand away.

And weirdly, I don't want her to.

"Seriously, though," she starts, "if you ever feel this again, or if you start to remember her, just talk to me, and I'll listen. Maybe share some stories as well."

She finishes with a small, worried smile.

"We can be antisocial together."

I give a miniscule smile. "Check."

She drops her hand from my face, but still holds onto my hand with her other one as she stands up. I rise with her.

"Come on," Max chides, "let's get you home. You've got to be cold."

I look down at my bare feet and arms.

I smirk. "Maybe a little."

She leads me to her car parked across the street.

"You're lucky that I always have my Game Cube in my car," Max says over her shoulder as she gets in the blue Elantra. "MarioKart is the ultimate mood-booster."

I can't help it; I laugh out loud. Which makes Max laugh. Which causes us to explode into laughter.

We are still laughing as she drives away.

We aren't laughing because anything is really that funny. We aren't laughing because we want to cry. We are laughing because of how the universe has collaborated to bring two, screwed up people together to share sorrows and introvertedness and life for a while.

* * *

Hours later, after many MarioKart races (Max won 13:10, sadly), we are just lounging across the couch, limbs haphazardly lying across each other, just talking about our lives in a way I haven't since Mom was alive.

My uncle and aunt are in their room, probably able to hear us, but aren't saying anything. They saw us when they came home, said a small hi, and then left us alone.

As I lie here, hanging out with Max, I can't help but grin at how happy I feel and how I don't feel so lost right now.

Life is a strange thing.

* * *

**This chapter is dedicated to "Love is Blindness" by The Devlins featuring Sharon Corr. A gentle, acoustic song.**

**R&R, if you want, as always.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for my absence. I've been a bit preoccupied.**

**Plus, these chapter require a bit more thought, because they are more like one-shots than action-filled scenes.**

**Anyway.**

**I feel like I had something to say, but I've forgotten by now.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride.**

* * *

_FPOV:_

"So, the fire department was there, staring at my cereal bowl dumbfounded – "

"I still can't believe you caught your cereal _on fire_," I proclaim, staring at Max with a startled and amused expression.

She punches my arm roughly. "Oh, shut it."

I smirk in response. "I'll make sure to note that Maximum Ride _can_ and _will_ defy the laws of basic chemistry at any given moment."

"And physics," Max adds, grinning. "Don't forget the laws of physics."

We continue walking down the sidewalk, heading to our respective homes now that school had ended.

Max and I have developed a routine system over the last two weeks of meeting up to walk to school and regathering after eight hours of prison (read: school) to trek back. Our conversations usually began on serious, mundane topics, like schoolwork or some trivial gossip that neither of us really understood (how can the populars keep up with all the different names and stories? I can't even remember the name of the boy who sits next to me in history class). However, by the time we reached Max's house, we'd be chatting up hilarious childhood memories or some abstract thought.

For example:

One day, our conversation started out by discussing how our science teacher, Mr. Xavier, had these hand cymbals.

Ten minutes later, we were discussing the human race existing as genderless aquatic grey blobs in tanks on the Moon.

Crazy is what we are.

Or awesome. They _are_ synonyms.

Back to the situation at hand.

Today, we had somehow stumbled upon a topic that lead Max to recounting her experience of setting her cold, milk-drenched bowl of Frosted Flakes on fire.

Somewhere, scientists and philosophers are screaming in agony like a grammar freak who just came across a run-on sentence.

Max's house comes into my line of vision, and it is steadily approaching due to Max and I's rapid walking pace. I estimate that I have time for one last line of inquiry before we reach her house.

"How does Angel get proper nutrition if your mom isn't home?" I ask innocently, caring deeply about the welfare of a poor, helpless child.

Psh.

It's all about antagonizing Max.

Max scowls at me, which only makes me smirk wider, but she responds, "That's what Iggy is for."

I pause, only one house length from Max's humble abode. "Who's Iggy?"

She looks at me in mild surprise. "I can't believe I haven't talked about Iggy yet. He's my older brother."

"Oh," is all I have time to utter, and then Max and I walk the remaining few feet required to reach Max's front door.

I stand there awkwardly, half turned toward my home.

This "goodbye" exchange is always weird.

Max rests on her doormat, holding the doorknob with one hand while facing me. She is staring at me in silence, some unreadable emotion on her face.

I look to my feet, feeling slightly uncomfortable at this unusually long silence. Normally, I'd have said bye and left by now.

"Um," I stammer, hesitantly raising my gaze to meet Max's warm brown ones. "See ya later."

I turn around, and I walk about five feet away before I hear Max yell, "Fang!"

I stop and whip around, my eyebrow quirked in question.

Max stares, a bit startled at how quickly I responded, and she opens her mouth a few times without sound, looking like a codfish.

I start to turn around again when Max finally gets her voice back.

"Wanna hang out here, today?"

I rotate to fully face her, surprised. This isn't normal protocol.

"What?" I ask quietly.

Max clears her throat and answers in a more confident tone before. "You should hang here today. With me. I mean, we have a lot of the same classes, so we can work on homework. And I need you to re-teach me Trig, because I have yet to master the art of absorbing knowledge while studying the back of my eyelids."

Max pauses, and then grins while adding, "Plus, Angel doesn't believe that I have actually befriended you."

Friend.

Although it was pretty much a given, I figure, that Max and I were friends, it is still nice to hear the word.

A familiar line runs through my head, in connotation to the word.

"_Friend are God's way of apologizing for our families_."

My mother used to say that all the time, referring to my rather flamboyant grandfather and my religiously conservative grandmother that make family dinners _very _interesting.

The memory falls into my stomach like a heavy rock, and I start to feel its weight.

But then I see Max gazing at me expectantly, the door still ajar.

And I shove the rock aside, give a small nod, and walk back to Max's house, through the door, and into her house for the first time.

It's a pretty stereotypical house – cream colored carpets, solid, dark walls, a kitchen and a living room, filled with a large television and a mini-shrine of family photos.

I kick my shoes off at the door, noticing a small collection of footwear gathered there. I look behind me to see Max close the door and do the same.

The carpet is soft under my sock-clad feet as I hesitantly step forward, my backpack still in tow.

"So this is the ever-elusive Ride abode," I say, glancing around and taking in the sights. Very homey.

"Yep," Max replies, popping the "p" dramatically.

I stand in silence, unsure of what to do.

"Um," Max starts, "I guess the first thing a hostess does is offer food and a beverage. Care for either? I plan to devour whatever is in my fridge, so don't feel shy about asking."

"Whatever you're having," I respond, feeling that giving a specific food order doesn't really go over well…ever.

Max looks at me seriously. "Well, you better be starving then, because I eat _a ton_."

I give a small lip twitch. "Perfect."

Max rolls her eyes. "And here we were on a roll with your chatterbox skills…"

I give her a glare.

She gives me an innocent expression.

It's my turn to roll my eyes.

I follow her like a puppy into the kitchen, where Max pretty much attacks every drawer and creates a ceremonial pile of snacks on her round table. I stare hungrily at the stack of Goldfish, Lays potato chips, Twizzlers, fruit snacks, chocolate chip cookies, cheese sandwiches, Oreo Cakesters, cold pizza, few day old McDonalds fries, and (especially) a pile of re-heated bacon.

Calories, _activate_.

I pick up a piece of bacon first, and so does Max. We munch in contented silence, steadily picking our way through this mountain of teenage-metabolism heaven.

"So," I spit out through a mouthful of old fries and Goldfish, "you have brother named Iggy."

I can feel the food crumbs around my lips and chin. Very attractive.

Max ferociously takes a bite of cold pizza, destroying half of it in one chomp and leaving me thoroughly impressed.

"Yeah," she replies after swallowing, "he's two years older. He goes to the community college here in town. His last class ends at six, so he won't be home for a bit."

I throw a handful of fruit snacks in my mouth, briefly appreciating the variety of gummy flavors before pretty much swallowing them whole. "What's his major?"

"Engineering," Max says around a full mouth of fries. "His focus is food sciences. He's a food genius, I swear. That's why he cooks."

I give a snort. "I think he cooks because you definitely _can't_."

Max gives a cold glare. "I have the power to remove this bacon from your clutches, and I will readily act upon it."

I give a dramatic gasp. "No, not the bacon! My life is over!"

Max gives an evil grin, rubbing her hands together. "Muwahahaha! You shall forever live in a black hole of baconless sorrow!"

I can't help but grin. Being with Max is so easy. I can't help but wonder why she doesn't have more friends.

One of life's greatest mysteries, I suppose.

I hear the front door open, and the sound of light, quick footsteps fills the living room, steadily approaching.

"Max, I'm home!" a little voice yells, and soon a body appears in the kitchen doorframe.

Blonde hair in curly ringlets, bright blue eyes, and a poofy pink dress on.

Angel.

Angel freezes upon seeing me here, her gaze questioning. Then, she looks over at Max and smiles.

"You weren't lying!" Angel exclaims excitedly, smiling with wonder. "You really _are_ his friend!"

Max rolls her eyes. "Why would I lie about something like this, Ange?"

Angel acts as though she didn't hear Max, looking to me. "I told Max that you'd be a good friend. You already look a lot happier than when we were talking in the tree."

I feel confused, but I try not to portray it. "I looked sad in the tree?" I question.

"Not when you were talking to me," Angel says, acting like it is obvious. "You just looked sad when you thought no one could see you."

I start to feel uncomfortable. My emotions are not my favorite area of discussion, and I'm not proud that Angel saw a more raw part of me – one I'd rather be left hidden.

As if Max can feel the awkward tension building in me – although my mask is very blank, I make sure – she directs Angel's line of thought to a new topic. "What do you want to do today, Ange?"

Angel leaps to Max, her mind easily distracted. Still a six-year-old, even if she is oddly wise.

"Let's play house!" she proclaims, dancing around eagerly. "I'll be the pretty teenage daughter, and you can be the daddy, and Fang can be the mommy!"

"What?" I exclaim, startled.

"Oh, I think it is a _brilliant_ idea," Max enthuses, grinning wickedly.

"Do I look like a mommy to you, Angel?" I ask as nicely as possible, pointing to my face. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a guy."

Angel studies me for a second before replying, "Yep. I think you'll be a great mommy!"

I groan audibly, and Max pokes my side, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

"Come on, _dear_," Max mocks. "We have a household to run."

"I thought I had to reteach you Trig," I retort as Max grabs my arm and drags me behind Angel. "And all that bacon is still there, crying out to be eaten."

"I'd say man up, but that won't help you get into character," Max replies, smirking. "And it's not like I'll pay attention in Trig tomorrow, so why bother?"

I follow along in silent anger.

_I can't kill a six-year-old…that'd look bad. But murdering Max wouldn't be so horrible…_

Unfortunately, my diabolical schemes are halted when Angel stops at a large trunk and flips the lid open.

Fluffy skirts and hats and boas and sparkles fly out of the container like evil from Pandora's box.

I can only raise my eyebrow in question, keeping a calm exterior while internally thinking of my shrinking manhood.

"The costumes make the game," Angel states. "I think Max just needs a hat to hide her hair. But Fang, you need some new clothing."

She pulls out a feathery pink boa and a long stretch of pink, sequiny fabric.

_A dress_.

"Um, Angel, I don't think I need to wear…_that_," I phrase as delicately as possible, trying to not reveal the utter repulsion I'm feeling.

"But you don't look like a mommy in your clothes!" Angel yells.

"Whatever happened to imagination?" I mutter under my breath.

"Oh, come on, Fang!" Max faux-groans, smirking largely. "Where's your fun side?"

"Up you as…sassin," I correct quickly.

"Up my assassin?" Max asks mockingly, but Angel ignores the comment.

"_Please_?" Angel asks sweetly, and I make the mistake of glancing at Angel.

Big, round, shimmering blue Bambi eyes greet me, watering with the hint of unshed tears, quivering in the overhead fluorescent light.

I feel my resolve dissolve, and my gaze softens.

Guilt eats at my stomach. I can't say no to her – I don't want her to cry.

Ugh, stupid Bambi eyes.

I give an inaudible sigh, and Angel leaps for joy, knowing she's won.

"Fine," I say, "but it goes _over_ my clothes. I don't think the world is ready for my sexy legs to be revealed."

"What's 'sexy' mean?" Angel asks innocently.

"Uh, I said 'saxy', as in saxophone," I lie swiftly, not wanting to explain the concept of "sexy" to a six-year-old.

"Why do you have saxophone legs?"

"Uh, a misfortunate childhood accident that occurs if you don't eat your vegetables," I make up smoothly.

That's me, an inspiration to all child educators. Making the world a better place, one saxophone leg at a time.

Angel looks at me in horror. "I don't want saxophone legs!" she shrieks, looking appalled. "I'll make sure to eat all my broccoli tonight and tomorrow and the next tomorrow and forever!"

I glance over to Max, seeing her trying (and failing) to contain her laugher. I scowl in her general direction.

"Saxy legs, huh? I've got to see this someday," she comments, snorting in a completely unattractive way that still makes me want to smile.

But I've got some resentment to sustain, so I keep my annoyed expression planted on my face.

"I'm a freaking role model," I retort, "Barney only wishes he was this smooth."

Max snorts once before bending over in heavy laughter, her eyes watering.

After a few seconds, I let my lips twitch upwards a smidgen, to let her know I'm not really mad at all.

* * *

"My gosh, Fang, you look so _darling_ in that dress!" Max gushes in a fake Valley girl voice, flipping her hand dramatically.

I look to see if Angel is watching, and when I notice she is not, I flip Max the bird quickly.

"There are some things a man should never wear," I state, sighing slightly.

"I wasn't sure you'd do it," Max says, still grinning, "but now I see that beneath all that angsty, 'I'm too cool for school' façade of yours, you're really just a big soft marshmallow."

I frown, half turning to look at Angel, who was still trying to assemble her own outfit.

"I swear that girl has voodoo magic or something. I couldn't resist the Bambi eyes," I defend.

"Bambi eyes?" Max questions.

"What else do you call that watery-eye look she has?" I retort.

"Evil," Max replies simply.

I give a laugh at that.

However, then I see some markers behind Max.

"That was really clever. Witty," I say, slowly sauntering until I am awkwardly close to Max.

Max's eyes widen with surprise, and her breathing stops at my close proximity.

Subconsciously, I wonder why that is.

Consciously, though, I am slowly reaching my hand behind her, grabbing the marker and bringing it behind me.

"I think that Angel didn't quite finish your disguise, though," I continue, uncapping the marker behind my back. "I mean, the hat is great –"

I take the moment to nudge it with my now free hand, and Max's eyes follow my movement closely.

" – but I think we still need something more."

I whip out the marker and rapidly dash it across Max's upper lip, curling the end in a fancy French moustache style.

Max's expression goes from confused to murderously angry in about zero-point-two seconds flat.

"Fang, _I'm going to kill you!_" Max shrieks, turning and grabbing another marker behind her. "You shall regret _ever_ doing that!"

And that is how Max and I start a marker war, slashing Crayola's finest array of colors on every available piece of skin we can reach.

Angel stops her search and watches us silently, amused.

"I knew it," she mumbles quietly, and then she smiles.

* * *

Max and I end up lying in her room on the floor, laughing and clenching our sides and desperately trying to push oxygen into our straining lungs. Our skin resembles mild graffiti, and by now we have both given up and thrown the markers to the ground. Our hair is in disarray (I can practically feel mine going in every direction except the one it's supposed to), and I'm still wearing that horrible pink cloth/dress over my black T-shirt and jeans.

I haven't felt so happy in…God, I don't know when.

I risk a glance at Max, only to find her looking at me, too. The black 'stache I initially gave her stands in bold contrast to the rest of her marker scars, and her hair looks like a bird decided to nest in it. Her hat is twisted to the side and practically falling off her head.

We manage to gaze at each other for a few seconds more before bursting into laughter once again.

"I…can't…believe…we just did…this!" Max wheezes out. "It's…so…ridiculous!"

I stare at the ceiling, attempting to think "_Breathe in, breathe out,"_ but it's failing me.

Finally, our laughter calms down, and we are breathing again. We sit up, and I take the cloth off me while Max removes her cap.

"Way better than doing Trig," I comment, throwing the pink sparkling cloth of doom far away from me.

"Yeah," Max breathes out, still smiling.

We sit in silence, but it's comfortable. Warm.

"I'm glad I met you, Fang," Max admits, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. "It feels great to laugh like that."

"Me too," I reply, hoping that the warmth I feel in my cheeks is just from my previous lack of oxygen.

Max clambers to a standing position and reaches an arm down to me. I take it, and I use her force to pull myself up.

It's silent for a moment again.

"I better get going," I say, looking at my feet. "My aunt and uncle are probably wondering where I am."

"Yeah," Max replies, gazing at her wall.

We walk down the stairs, and I grab my backpack from the kitchen. As I walk through the living room, I see Angel watching a cartoon on the television.

"Hey, Angel, I'm sorry we didn't end up playing house," I say, feeling guilty that I robbed her of playtime.

"That's okay," she replies, smiling at me. "You guys were _way_ more entertaining than house would have been."

I give her an actual smile. She's really cute.

I then turn and walk toward the door, slipping on my tennis shoes. I open the door and step out into the cooling autumn air, feeling the fading sunshine faintly warm my torso.

I turn around, looking at Max.

"See ya later," I say with a small wave.

Max stands there, looking caught in indecision. She takes a half step forward, raising her arms slightly, but then steps backwards with a resigned look. Instead, she gives a small wave in return and allows a faint smile. "Bye."

I turn around and stroll down the street toward my house, feeling the warmth of the early evening sun heat my back as the memories of the past few hours sear my insides.

"_I wish you could see me now, Mom_," I think to myself. "_I think you'd be happy with my progress_."

The thoughts of Mom are both cold and warm, and although I am still attacked with questions of _why _she felt she had to leave, I can almost feel her hand on my shoulder.

And for now, that's enough.

* * *

**This chapter is brought to you by…nothing. No music today, really. However, I just attended an Eric Hutchinson concert Friday, and it was **_**amazing**_**, and you should check out his music because the man is great.**

**Reviews are always appreciated. R&R?**


	6. WARNING: not an update

**So, hey everyone.**

**This isn't something I wanted to do, but circumstances have proven themselves daunting, and I am left with no choice.**

**If you haven't already deduced it, I'm putting **_**Beneath It All**_** on hiatus until probably the middle of December.**

**I just don't have time I can dedicate to this story. If you are a follower of the guide, there is likely to be hardly any updates until the same time.**

**Engineering is a trap. Beware. **

**I didn't believe my life could be worse than it was in high school. I was very wrong. I apologize.**

**Sincerely,**

**~Dancing On My Toes~**


End file.
